


Praising False Gods

by anonniemouse



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Heaven & Hell, M/M, One Shot, Phase One (Gorillaz), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 18:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonniemouse/pseuds/anonniemouse
Summary: There ain’t much further you can fall.





	Praising False Gods

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! sorry it’s been awhile, this summer has been super busy.
> 
> anyways, enjoy this short ficlet i wrote instead of sleeping. 
> 
> love you guys!   
\- mouse
> 
> (new chapter of tewlb coming this month)

There ain’t much further you can fall. 

You’re forged from flames and something else sick and twisted that only grew sicker over the years. You’re the shadows people see out of the corner of their eyes and when they look back, there’s nothing there. You’re the nightmares that people wake up from and don’t remember, but the silent scream as they awaken and the sweat sticking their shirt to their skin lets them know it was a real bad one.

When you were younger they used to whisper about you, saying you were born from something that shouldn’t be allowed to make children. Parents used to tell their kids not to play with you, to stay away from you, because they saw right through you and saw all the sick inside. In a perverted way, it was funny how they watched you through unsettled eyes, taking two steps away to make sure you didn’t drag them down too. 

But you now suppose there was some logic in their actions. Because that sick inside corrupted you over time, making your empathy fade to apathy and any regret or guilt you once had just lurks in the dusty corners of your mind, burning up from all the hell within you.

You? You’re the low and the damned, something shriveled that never got the chance to fly. It was inevitable for you to fall, so you revered in your atrocities, hoping you could fall faster into perdition. 

Until you met him. 

If you were all wreckage of fire and brimstone, he was some kinda patron saint of everything you’d never be. 

He’d look at you all concerned with those inky eyes whenever you’d speak, whenever you’d fall faster, and you found it so amusing when he’d try to patch up the little bits of sick that showed, not realizing that all the sick was coming from inside. He’d smoke cigarettes with you (_a bit more fire that made you burn quicker)_ and reach for your free hand, asking if you were alright when you’d space out and try to ignore how far you were from redemption. He’d chastise you for your recklessness, trying to futilely proselytize you to whatever kind of good he was. It made you laugh, all his attempts to fix you up, when you had already fallen so far out of reach.

But sometimes those eyes of his reflected something else late at night, something seductive and laced with the same sick that writhed through your veins. And when he’d give you that sort of look, it made your insides twist and the burning heat of want overpower all your other body functions.

You want that look written in your epitaph when you finally croak, whether it be in two years or twenty, when that small group of sinners (because who else would go to watch your funeral) in black stand ‘round your grave and the false priest says _ dearly beloved we are gathered here today to celebrate the death of Murdoc Niccals, who fell until there was simply no more room to fall anymore_.

But more importantly you want to grab hold of his pure, pale hand and sink your nails into it and force him down with you. Taking that sick within you and shoving it into him so you can both fall together. Sometimes you wonder if he was made from a piece of you, you want him so badly. Maybe someone took out the good in you and shaped it into him and now you want all that good back.

You’d press him down against your bed and he’d fit his lips to yours, fever-sweet like overripe fruit, drinking in your hell and begging for you to do twisted things to him. It made you grin when he’d do that, when he’d whine for you and cry to you like you were some kinda false god he was praying to. How he was so damn desperate for a sinner man like you, how he saw all that sick and looked at it through lustdrunk eyes. 

When he makes those sweet noises and reaches for you pathetically as if you’re the only thing stable he can cling onto, it makes parts of you grow sicker and sicker. Your mouth would map across his body, all skin stretched tightly over bones, dipping your tongue into the spaces between his ribs mouthing little praises against him, touching him and touching him like it’s your wordless mantra.

If, a long long time from now, someone were to write some gospel about him and you, there would be no words. Just a consummation of sickness and purity. Because the only time you ever feel whole is when his body’s under yours and he’s kissing you with a fire that parallels the one you’re inches from falling into.

There ain’t much further you can fall. But if he’s falling with you, wrapped up in a blanket of your sick, you suppose it wouldn’t be so bad.


End file.
